Reflections: Honor

The reflections of cattails, trees, sky are ephemeral, discarnate, bodiless, weightless, yet accurate and delightful.  When I gaze at them, for a moment I too feel weightless--well, almost weightless.

The arbor vitae seems frosted.  Or is this juniper?  If I had crushed one of these berries to get the scent I would have known.  Juniper is unmistakable.  Sniff gin and you smell juniper.

I hope the zinnias will go on until the first hard frost.  The colors are so intense they seem hot enough to melt frost.  Red admiral butterflies are feasting on the zinnias.  (I'll try to get a picture of them.)

It's lucky to have these sights so close to home.  Classic forms in New England.  Those loops of handles are generous!

The sculpture at the base of the Town Hall flag pole have a wonderful shine.  The child's hand resting on the mother's is a familiar gesture.

There are four words carved at the base: honour, liberty, patriotism, obedience.  We hear a lot about patriotism and liberty ("freedom" is the word favored now) but hardly anything about honor or obedience.  According to Wiki, Samuel Johnson, in his A Dictionary of the English Language (1755), defined honor as having several senses, the first of which was "nobility of soul, magnanimity, and a scorn of meanness.  An elegantly written definition.  I wish our public figures possessed such honor.  Mitt Romney was dishonorable when he played up to the Birthers, who insist that Obama was not born in America,  by saying in a recent speech in Michigan, that no one asked to see his birth certificate.  

As for me, I hope to be obedient to a code of honor, and thank Samuel Johnson for his clarity.  "Scorn of meanness."  Meanness here meaning lack of generosity.

Neighborhood Pleasures

It's been far too long away--away at my desk, putting together a new book, away taking art classes with M.S., away to the pond.  A few days ago J. and I went to the Cambridge Public Library and took the elevator up to the children's floor.  There's a delightful corner with a view and a carpeted area in which to sprawl and loll with books and toys.

The carpet is sculpted.  I could feel the soft humps through my crocs.

The giant zinnias are coming into their own.  Tomorrow the magenta ones should open.  Magenta!

Turtles come up to sun themselves, always the same rocks, always their heads facing the same way.

Another neighborhood sight--a rare one in this liberal area.  I smile whenever I see it.  Why does this display give me so much pleasure?  The fixed, frozen quality, I believe, the display of foolishness.    

Embrace on the Beach

"Coney Island"
Photo by Morris Engel

Too Young to Die

Writer, film director, journalist Nora Ephron died at seventy-one.  Too young! I thought.  But is there any good age to die?  Do we say, 'Eighty-nine is a good age to die?'  Or forty-nine, or fifty-two?  As long as one is not screaming in agony, as long as one is getting some pleasure out of life, there is no good time to die.   June, 2012--the  cherries have been delicious this year, and with them I like to drink dry white wine.  A Graves is good.  


I am not calmed by eastern religion or friends who quote serene-sounding classical Chinese poets, who seem to accept death, not that I'm all for raging against the dying of the light in the manner of Dylan Thomas.  Rage and you burn yourself out.  


One of these Chinese poets writes that losing a tooth is a marker of mortality, a sign that you will soon die.  It will take more than a loss of a tooth to convince me I'm about to die.


And please, no one tell me after the death of an old person, 'She had a good life' or 'He lived a long life.'  Save those dull so-called reassurances for someone who can bear banality.    

Spring Beauties

I'm a sucker for red.  These roses blaze as summer gets closer.  There's no such thing as too much when it comes to flowers.  These have no perfume.  We'll have to imagine a scent--a sweet scorch.  These are Meidiland roses developed in France.

This dainty plant finds a foothold in a tightly mortised stone wall.  It doesn't need much.  Somehow it's found soil in the cracks and enough nutrients to bloom--bloom small.

Bold and dainty surprised me on my neighborhood walk.  Fresh beauty is close at hand.  Why not look?

Plumed Hats & Scarlet Cloaks

Seventeenth century artist Stefano della Bella drew this man in a plumed hat.  It would be marvelous to see men in such hats now, a change from the common baseball hat we see everywhere.  (Isn't "della Bella" the perfect name!)    

Here in Boston, in the 18th century, well-to-do men wore scarlet cloaks woven from fine wool dyed from cochineal made from the shells of an insect that feeds on cactus.  On Sunday we saw two scarlet cloaks on display at the Concord Museum.  Now in Boston men wear drab colors: gray, dark green, brown.  (I first came across the word "cochineal" in a poem by Emily Dickinson, in which she describes the arrival of a hummingbird: 'a revolving wheel of cochineal.')

Gathering insects for making cochineal.

Men wearing flamboyant clothes would probably not improve society but would make for a lively scene, a scene on the street and subway.  First we have to get people out of their cars.  Men, put on your scarlet cloaks and plumed hats and strut!

Jews & African Americans on Beacon Hill

Leaving the posh south side of Beacon Hill I saw, by chance, the Vilna Shul built in 1906, when immigrant Jews lived on the north side of Beacon Hill, and Jews from Vilna chose this large bold stained glass window set into the facade.  

The shul on Phillips Streets is slowly being restored.  Earlier, in the 19th century, African Americans lived on this same steep north slope.  The house at 66 Phillips was the home of Lewis Hayden, once a fugitive slave.   

A map of the African American Heritage Trail is available at the Museum of African American History on Joy Street.  The museum is housed in the former African American Meeting House.  I was moved to see the pulpit where Frederick Douglas spoke.  

A creature of soft pleasures, I drank a glass of wine and ate biscotti to strengthen myself for the subway and bus ride home.